


Aftermath

by umbrafix



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Episode 3.4 Coda, Episode Related, Family, Fixing things, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Morse!Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-24 00:24:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6135169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrafix/pseuds/umbrafix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a bullet left in the chamber. Alternate ending for 3.4, Coda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> What if Morse had been shot at the end of Episode 3.4, Coda. Spoilers for the episode (it’s been a while since I saw it except for clips, so apologies for any inaccuracies).

Seeing his Joan with a gun to her throat was without doubt the most terrifying moment of Thursday’s life.

 

“Put it down,” Matthews yelled, and pressed the barrel tighter against her. Thursday’s heart lurched in his chest, and his thoughts went cold and still. Joanie’s eyes were wide and terrified, her face half obscured by shadow.

 

Time seemed to pass in slow motion as he lowered the gun to the ground, as he prayed that Matthews would shoot him and not Joan. He could hear birds singing somewhere in the trees, smell the chippie down the street, see every minute detail of that gun. He prayed to a God he wasn’t sure he believed in anymore: me for her. Kill me, and let her live.

 

It wasn’t a trade he had to make; just as his gun was about to touch the pavement Morse stood in a flurry. “Chamber’s empty,” his bagman announced loudly, voice strained. “Only he’s too _stupid_  to count to six.”

 

Thursday’s eyes flicked to him, then back to Matthews. Back to Morse again. Waiting, waiting…

 

Matthews moved. “I’ll show you stupid-“ His arm flung around to point at Morse and  _bang_ , Thursday had him.

 

The world sped up again, too fast almost, as the bastard fell to the floor behind Joan clutching his arm. All Thursday could see was his daughter, unharmed.  _Safe_. She ran to the side.  _Safe_. Thursday’s heart went _thump_ , and it felt like that was the first time it had beaten in well over a minute.

 

He walked forward then, each footstep heavy and decided, filled with an icy, grave anger. This man had tried to hurt his little girl, had killed Clissold and that lad in the bank, was the reason Thursday was suspended…

 

“Take me in then, law-man,” Cole Matthews sneered. Thursday stood over him, and cocked his gun deliberately. Everything else seemed to fade away. The world would be a better place without this one, that was a promise Thursday made himself.

 

“Morse, are you alright?” he heard distantly, as though through a fog. “Morse? Are you alright, matey?”

 

Jim Strange’s voice.

 

Morse?

 

The world slowed down again as Thursday’s head swivelled, his arm staying absolutely steady, and for the first time he saw Morse leaning against the wall of the alley as though it was the only thing holding him up. “Morse?” Thursday asked, and his voice was so dry and paper thin that his own wife would have barely recognised it.

 

Morse looked behind Thursday, in Strange’s direction. The lad seemed bewildered. “Fine,” he said, but no more than a second later his knees buckled and he slid a foot down the wall, leaving a bright red streak on the tan brickwork behind him.

 

He’d been hit.

 

Thursday felt as though he’d been punched in the stomach; in an instant his blood ran hot instead of cold. He turned his head back to glare at Matthews.

 

 _First Joan, now Morse_?

 

“Do it.” Matthew’s tone seemed to dare him, and Thursday’s finger tightened on the trigger. “I’m glad I got one of yours; pasty little blighter didn’t even put up a fight when I hit him-“

 

Thursday roared, and his finger jerked on the trigger; the sound of the shot echoed loud in his ears. The bullet struck the pavement a few inches away from Cole’s right ear, and chips of stone sprayed through the air. One of them cut the bugger’s cheek, made him bleed, and the sight felt good. That was the last warning shot Thursday would give. He’d had enough.

 

He still had a bullet left.

 

“Sir, don’t.” Morse’s voice was faint, but when Thursday glanced his way he could see the lad was still propped against the wall.  _Not dead_. Strange was over by him; Thursday hadn’t even seen him move. “Not here. Not like this. Not with Miss Thursday-“ He stopped mid-sentence, panting, and slid the rest of the way down the wall, Strange easing his slow topple.

 

“Dad? Oh God,  _Morse_ ,” Joan cried.

 

Thursday’s lips drew back in a snarl as he refocused on Matthews, still staring up at him defiantly. “Think you can do whatever you want – that you can threaten  _my family_ , my people, and get away with it?” he spat.

 

“He’s in a bad way, sir,” Strange called urgently, and Thursday’s hand started shaking on the gun. He dared a brief look to the side again, and Morse’s eyes were focused intently on him. The lad was laid out on the ground now, Strange’s hands opening his jacket, but all he was doing was watching Thursday, lips moving soundlessly.

 

‘ _Not like this_ ,’ seemed to echo in Thursday’s head as he stared into those pleading eyes, and he swallowed. Morse gave a choked cry and arched up, breaking eye contact - Strange must have put pressure on the wound.

 

What he might have done next remained untested; Bright and several other officers approached from behind Matthews. Thursday’s brain instantly snapped tracks, from revenge to protect. “Sir,” he said smartly, putting up his gun. “Morse is down, been shot. We need an ambulance.”

 

“Thursday.” Bright looked at the men behind him. “You, ring for an ambulance. And you, take custody of these two men – they may need medical attention.” He rounded the car, and saw Morse. “Good God. What happened?”

 

Thursday held out his arm without thinking, and Joan came to tuck in against his shoulder. Thank God. He kissed her hair, and looked down at Morse’s pained form on the ground. “Cole Matthews had Joan, sir,” he said finally, voice hoarse. “Morse drew his fire and I took him down. Not fast enough,” he added with self-recrimination.

 

Morse gave a half shout as another officer came to help and jostled him. Thursday wanted to be down there with him, wanted to touch and check and reassure, but he couldn’t leave Joan; couldn’t stop holding her for the life of him. “Where’s he hit?” he asked gruffly instead.

 

“Low on the right shoulder,” said Strange, glancing back at him. “Straight though. He’s bleeding a lot though,” he added doubtfully.  

 

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” said Bright with quiet certainty. His hand reached out and carefully closed over the gun in the hand not wrapped around Joan; Thursday startled. He’d forgotten he was even holding it.

 

“Thank you, sir,” he said absently, and stayed staring down at his bagman. Morse looked up searchingly, eyes wild, and only seemed to settle when he saw Thursday and Joan standing there. Then Strange pushed his head back down, blocking his vision, telling him to lie still, that help was coming, and half a minute later the whole cycle repeated again.

 

Thursday moved a bit closer, Joan still held precious and close, so that Morse could see them without straining.

 

It seemed like an eternity before help arrived, stretcher bearers hustling people aside and tending to Morse. In contrast they swept out again in what seemed like seconds, barking orders to each other and the people around them. Gone, before Thursday could say anything.

 

His eyes traced the path of the smeared bloodstain on the wall, on the ground, for a long moment before he realised that Joan was weeping into his shoulder.

 

“There now,” he murmured, and petted her hair. He couldn’t stop staring fixedly at the darkening blood though, not until CS Bright stepped in front of him.

 

“Done all you can here. Come into the station tomorrow, and we’ll get everything else sorted. Now, time you took your girl home?”

 

Thursday dragged his eyes up to Bright’s face. “Yes,” he muttered through numb lips. “Yes.”

 

\-------------

 

He had no memory of making it home, afterwards, although he almost definitely hadn’t been safe to drive. There was the flash of meeting Win out front, of her relieved tears and her hug, and the way she wouldn’t let go of Joan – the two of them piling into the back seat of the car together. Then he was drawing up next to his front gate, realising only then that he’d taken the Jag home, and only on putting the keys down on the small table next to the door that his hands were still shaking.

 

“-Make us a cuppa,” Win was saying, as she headed into the kitchen, and Thursday was pulling Joan into his arms again, breathing in the smell of her hair. He could have lost this, today, this precious thing he and Win had made and raised and  _loved_.

 

He felt his own vision get misty, and blinked rapidly a few times to clear his eyes.

 

“Will he be alright, Dad?” whispered Joan against his chest. He tightened his arms around her for a moment.

 

“Course he will. That one gets in trouble more often than Sam did when he was ten; he always comes out of scrapes alright.” He cleared his throat painfully, and tried to dispel the image of bloodstained stone from his mind’s eye. “You go on and help your mother now while I get my coat off.”

 

They sat and had tea in the living room; the two of them either side of Joan, bracketing her between them. She seemed too in shock to talk, and Thursday didn’t tell Win more than the basics for fear of distressing her. Joan seemed to gain comfort from them pressed against her though, and God knew Thursday needed it from her presence in return.

 

Would she still have trusted him, still have wanted to sit close to him, if he’d killed Matthews in front of her? He almost had. If it hadn’t been for Morse, for Bright…

 

Half an hour later the tea was cold, and still mostly untouched. “I should go and check on Morse, in the hospital,” Thursday said, stirring.

 

Win blinked, caught staring out into nothing. “Of course, give him our love. Will he need anything, do you think? I could make him some-“ But Thursday shook his head.

 

Joan’s head had come up, and she looked more alert than she had since the shooting. “Can I come with you?” she asked. “I want to see him, to thank him.” Her voice was watery still though, and Thursday thought it was the last thing she needed.

 

“I’m not sure if he’ll be up to proper visitors yet, sweetheart,” he said gently. Thursday didn’t know if he’d even be out of surgery yet; the not knowing awoke an unpleasant sensation in his gut. “Probably just needs rest.”

 

“ _You’re_  going,” she said mulishly, but settled back against her mother again as he got up. Thursday eyed the two of them sitting together on the couch. There was nothing on this earth he wouldn’t do to keep them safe. Morse had been the one to do that today; the lad had quite literally taken a bullet for Thursday’s little girl.

 

“I’ll see you two in a bit, alright?”

 

\----------

 

The small recovery ward Thursday was directed to was quiet. The other beds were either empty or the patients were unconscious - unfortunately that was true of Morse as well.

 

The lad looked ashen, small and frail in the crisply made bed. Heartbreakingly young, not that much older than Sam or Joan. A livid bruise stood out on his cheek  - that must have been where Matthews had hit him.

 

When he tracked her down, the matron told him that the surgery had gone well. Morse had lost a fair bit of blood from a nicked artery but otherwise there were no complications. He’d come round from the anaesthetic alright, but the best thing to do was to let him sleep it off. Thursday nodded, and then nodded again as she started giving him instructions as though he were a relative.

 

God, had anyone called Morse’s family?

 

The matron finished by very firmly instructing him on normal visiting hours, which these were not, and then gave him a slightly softer smile and told him not to wake the lad. Thursday walked slowly back to his bedside and took off his coat and hat. There was no point in staying, of course, not if Morse needed his rest. But Thursday needed to have him in his sight for a while, to see the top of a clean, white bandage poking above the covers. No blood.

 

Morse was still though, too still. After a minute Thursday left the uncomfortable visitor’s chair to stand next to the bed, to idly drop his hand so that his fingers brushed against the back of Morse’s hand, careful of the drip.  _Warm_. Reassured, he sat again, but dragged the chair closer to the bedside; he knew himself well enough to know he’d need to check again.

 

It was maybe an hour after that when they asked him to leave. He thought about fighting it, but there was already a thrum under his skin telling him he needed to see Joan again. He drove the Jag home, not caring this time – if they wanted it at the station they could come and get it.

 

His wife and daughter were sitting huddled on the sofa, and for a moment he couldn’t tell if they’d moved the whole time he was gone. Joan stirred, as though coming out of hibernation. “How is he?”

 

“Oh, well enough, he was asleep after the surgery. Lost a bit of blood, but they said it was a clean wound. He’ll be out in a couple of days. It’ll be a fine chance convincing him to rest though - might have to see if they can keep him in for longer.” He smiled, but couldn’t keep the worry out of it.

 

Joan’s lower lip trembled, and she turned her face away. “I keep seeing them. Morse. Ronnie. It’s all my fault.”

 

“No,” Thursday said strongly, moving to sit across from her. “You fell foul, that’s all.” She avoided his gaze to stare at the wall, a shocked, thousand-yard stare he’d never have wanted to see on his little girl. “A good night’s sleep – you’ll feel better in the morning.”

 

Win pressed Joan’s hand “Nature’s remedy,” she said quietly.

 

Eventually Joan swallowed, “Yeah, a good night’s sleep.” She hugged her mother, sniffed and rose. She would have bypassed Thursday entirely, but he took her hand as she passed and drew her into his arms, holding her tight. He could have lost her, God, he could have lost her. “Can I see Morse, tomorrow?” she whispered into his shoulder.

 

“I’m not sure, love.” He thought of Morse lying still and corpse-like on the bed. “Probably best not; he might not want visitors.”

 

He felt her shoulders move as though she stifled a sob, but she was dry eyed when she pulled away. “Oh,” she murmured, pausing in the doorway. “There was something I was supposed to tell you. Something he said to me, in the bank. He wanted me to give you a book with codes, but it was blank. Something about a man named Cedric? And horses. Charlottetown and… I can’t remember. I was supposed to tell you to arrest…” She paused with an expression of concentration on her face, biting her lip. “Felix and Nina Lorimer. And Paul, Paul Marlock. I forgot, I’m so sorry.”

 

“That’s alright, love,” Thursday replied steadily, but his heart had started racing. Morse had solved the case?

 

“I think he knew,” she added with a hitch in her breath. “He always knew something would happen to him. That’s why he told me.” She turned her back and fled up the stairs; Thursday started after her but Win was up and catching his hand before he’d got more than a step.

 

“Let her go, love. Needs to cry it out, maybe.”

 

“Maybe,” he murmured, then shook himself. “I need to call the station, will you be alright for a minute?”

 

“Course I will. Let me see what I can put together for dinner.”

 

It took only a minute to get put through to Bright – the man must have been working late trying to process everything from the bank. “Thursday here. My Joan’s just passed on a message Morse gave her; says to arrest Nina and Felix Lorimer – he’s a professor - and a Paul Marlock. Something to do with gambling debts, it sounds like. Hmm? Oh, I think he’s fine, sir, apparently everything went well. Yes. Yes. Thank you, sir, good night.”

 

\---------------------

 

The morning was a horrible, warped nightmare; hearing Win’s cry from downstairs, racing down to find a letter from Joan, running out to the gate in his shirtsleeves to find no sign of her.

 

He sat down, hard, on the garden step, and stared blankly out into the street. Joan, gone?

 

 _Gone_.

 

“Fred?” Mrs Thursday’s voice roused him; he turned to see her standing in the doorway, still clutching the letter anxiously in her hand.

 

He hauled himself to his feet, dusting himself off, and started slowly back up the path. His mind felt completely empty, as though someone had wrung all the thoughts and joy right out of it.

 

Win sat him down at the kitchen table and put the kettle on; her hands were trembling, he noticed. He wanted to reach out, to hold them, but felt strangely frozen. The note lay in front of him now, on the table, and he could take it in in a way he hadn’t been able to in that first, panicked moment.

 

_‘Can’t stay,’ ‘love you both,’ ‘my fault,’ ‘Ronnie and Morse.’_

 

“She’ll come back though,” Win said after a few minutes, standing with her back to him at the stove. “Won’t she?”

 

Thursday couldn’t answer for a long moment. He didn’t know. Joan was getting old enough to be thinking of moving out anyway, but he’d thought they’d have a while yet. And they loved having her here.

 

They’d only just lost Sam to the army.

 

He found his voice. “Of course.”

 

Finally he managed to convince his legs to stand, to go to his wife and wrap his arms around her, to kiss the top of her head as she turned to him and cried.

 

 

\--------

 

Things weren’t much better at the station, once he’d got Win to go and spend the day with her family across town. Everyone was moving around with heavy, ponderous gazes. One of their own dead and another in hospital, a shooting in the bank they hadn’t managed to prevent, the DI’s daughter threatened.

 

Thursday was planning on going straight through to Bright, but diverted upon seeing Sgt Strange at his desk. “Any news from the hospital?” he asked. He’d been planning to ring this morning, but with the way things had gone…

 

“I went to see him yesterday, sir, he came through alright. And I rang this morning – they said he’s in a lot of pain but doing as well as can be expected.”

 

“Did you call his family?”

 

Strange glanced down at the desk and picked up a piece of paper. “Yes, I talked to his sister, Joyce. She was very worried, but she can’t make it down; seems like she’s the only one supporting the family, sir, along with what Morse sends them.” Thursday stared at him, taking this in. “She said that maybe he could go up and stay with them, if he needs to recover? His stepmother could look after him.” Strange hesitated. “Not my place to say, sir, but it sounded like that might not be…” he trailed off. “Never mind.”

 

Thursday eyed him for a moment, and then nodded. “Any news on the Clissold case?”

 

“Yes, sir. The two you called about – the Lorimers – can’t be found anywhere. Seem to have left town in a hurry. We found Paul Marlock from Morse’s notes - arrested him but he’s denying everything. We haven’t really got much to hold it together, sir.”

 

Thursday sighed. “Need to find out what Morse knows. As you were, Sergeant.”  

 

Bright’s office then, and the chief super gestured for him to sit down. “It’s a bad business, this, a bad business. A constable shot in the street, and then Morse.”

 

“He saved my Joan’s life, sir,” Thursday said fiercely.

 

“Yes, yes he did. Good man, that one. Be sorry to lose him.”

 

The bottom went right out of Thursday’s stomach. “Lose him, sir?” he repeated slowly.

 

“Well, with him passing his Sergeant’s exam, not to mention the injury. No, I imagine he’ll have some time off and start again in pastures new.”

 

And it was exactly what Thursday had been thinking, fearing, himself – though he couldn’t have predicted the injury.

 

“I’m not sure what him becoming a sergeant has to do with it, sir,” he said slightly testily. “More than one sergeant at the station. More than one as has worked for me, for that matter; we had Strange and Jakes. And before that Jakes and Presley.”

 

“We’re trying to cut back, Thursday, not take on extra staff,” Bright’s tone was placating; perversely it just irritated Thursday more.

 

“Well not at Morse’s expense you’re not,” Thursday said bitingly. He was on his feet before he knew it, leaning forward. “That boy’s done more for the closure rate of this station than half the other lads combined. He’s got rough edges, to be sure, but I’ve never met  _anyone_  with such a natural–“   

 

“And what about when you’re gone?” Bright interrupted him. “Will he even want to stay?”

 

It was an oblique reference to their dance around the state of Thursday’s health, but a powerful one nonetheless. Thursday felt the wind go right out of him, and sat heavily. After a moment, he drew a handkerchief out of his pocket – he’d found it again last night as he got undressed. Hadn’t let Win see it.

 

“I coughed this up yesterday, sir.” He unwrapped the bullet fragment. “Don’t know if that means I’ll be alright, or go sooner.“

 

He almost couldn’t bear the thought of it – leaving his Win alone, with Sam and Joan gone.

 

“Thursday,” Bright breathed.

 

“I’ll go to the doctor today, get it checked out. But if I’m staying then I want _Morse_ as my bagman.” He hesitated a moment. “Unless the lad wants to move on, that is. Can’t say as I’d blame him.”

 

Bright considered him for a moment. “Strange updated you on the case?”

 

“Yes. I was about to head over and see if I can’t get more details from Morse.”

 

“Hmm. You can consider yourself off suspension, but that may be reviewed at the end of the inquiry.” He drew Thursday’s badge out of his desk drawer and placed it in front of him. “Be careful, Thursday. The only reason I could negotiate this was because you were instrumental in yesterday not going worse than it did, and I had to do a lot of fast talking.”

 

“Yes sir,” Thursday said, not making eye contact. 

 

“I don’t know if internal affairs got around to interviewing Morse before yesterday; if not they may call at the hospital.” Thursday’s eyes flew to meet Bright’s at that, but the objection died on his tongue at the severity of the man’s face.

 

“I’ll be off then, sir.”

 

“Yes, yes, alright.” Bright seemed distracted as Thursday rose, then, “She’s alright, your girl?”

 

“Yes, sir,” Thursday said stiffly. “Bit shaken up, but fine.”

 

“Good. Good.”

 

\-----------

 

This time the ward was busy, filled with nurses coming and going with patients. Thursday had to flash his badge to get in. Actually it reminded Thursday of the police station with its bustle, just with the additional smell of antiseptic and occasional loud rasping breaths from the patient next to Morse. Morse himself was awake at least, though his eyes were unfocused and a bit blurry.

 

“Sir,” he said, and tried to sit up. The pain stopped him before Thursday could, spreading over his face in a wave, and he sunk back down like a strand of limp spaghetti.

 

“Stay down, lad,’ Thursday murmured, putting a quick hand on his good shoulder, gently pressing him to the bed.

 

“They wouldn’t let me call the station,” Morse said accusingly, his muscles still wound tight under Thursday’s grasp. “What’s happened? Did you get the Lorimers?”

 

“I didn’t get your message until last night, Morse, the Lorimers were long gone. We’ve got Marlock locked up, but he’s not talking. Why don’t you walk me through it?”

 

And so it all came spilling out, the clues Morse had uncovered, the plot he’d put together. “I was too slow, too stupid – I should have seen it sooner.”

 

“None of  _us_  saw it at all!” Thursday said a touch acerbically. Morse blinked, his flushed energy fading, and Thursday felt a pang of guilt. “I was so fixated on the bloody Matthews brothers,” he muttered by way of apology.

 

Morse glanced down for a moment, and the weight of the last few days pressed heavily in the silence. Things Thursday had said. Things he hadn’t. And Morse, shining like a bloody beacon of irritating righteousness through it all.

 

At least if Thursday had been right he could have taken some comfort in that. Instead he’d roughed up an informant, lost his bagman’s respect, gotten suspended and nearly shot a man in cold blood, and for what? He’d been after completely the wrong person. Obsessed. He hadn’t listened to Morse, when the lad had tried to tell him so.

 

He cleared his throat painfully. “Morse-“

 

“How’s Miss Thursday?” Morse asked hastily, and it was easier to let him change the subject than pursue it.

 

“Joan? Oh, she’s – she’s…” But he found he couldn’t dissemble about this, not with Morse. Not when it felt like the world was falling down around his ears. “She’s gone, Morse. Left a note; Win found it this morning. Said she felt responsible, that she needed to get away.” Morse’s eyes had gradually gone wide and dismayed as Thursday spoke, now he shook his head vigorously enough that his hair fluffed up in a reddish halo against the pillow.

 

“She’s gone?” Morse asked, sounding half-wild. “No, she can’t – she wouldn’t do that to you!”

 

Thursday studied his hands, traced the lines on them. “Couldn’t believe it myself,” he said gruffly. Then, “She was worried about you; wanted to come and see you yesterday. And today, for that matter.” He looked up sharply. “She didn’t come here, did she?”

 

Morse shook his head. “No, sir.”

 

“I shouldn’t have said no to her, maybe she’d have stayed.” Morse’s eyes flicked back and forth across his face, trying to understand.

 

“Sir?”

 

“Never mind, Morse. Alright, well, I’d better get this back to the station. You rest, and I’ll be back this evening.” Morse started to demur, and Thursday said, “I’m coming either way, lad, no point in wasting your breath.” Morse’s chin remained stubborn, but the tension in his frame eased a little.

 

Thursday found the doctor who’d treated him for his own wound a floor down. Knocking on the door produced only a muffled grunt from inside, so he nudged it open and went in.

 

“Unless you have an appointment-“ the doctor started, then looked up and saw him. “Mr… Thursday, is it?” They’d met again only the week before, when Thursday had come for a consultation. “I’m really very busy.”

 

Thursday drew the handkerchief out of his pocket, and carefully laid it open on the table. The doctor inhaled sharply. “Is this…?”

 

“I coughed it up yesterday.” Along with what had felt like a quarter of a pint of blood, he didn’t add.

 

The doctor examined him, and was cautiously optimistic, or at least less dire, after listening to his chest. No guarantees, he’d said, but given that the day before Thursday had been operating with a three-week expiration date… Well. Something like that changed a man. And not, he feared in his case, for the better.

 

Christ, he couldn’t get Morse’s pale look of betrayal out of his head. At the time there hadn’t been room for it, he’d been so desperate to do whatever he could before his time was up, but now it returned to haunt him. A hell of a stick to measure oneself by, was Morse’s view of you.

 

At the station he updated the APB on the Lorimers, then pushed Paul Marlock with the new information until he confessed. That made Thursday feel a bit better. He went and updated Bright on proceedings, including that Morse had been right about the case.

 

Bright sighed under Thursday’s lingering gaze. “I’m thinking about it,” was all Thursday got from him.

 

“Sir,” Thursday said, aiming for respectful but falling somewhere between judgmental and reproachful. He’d be lucky not to find _himself_ forcibly exploring pastures new at this rate, if he couldn’t control his temper.

 

Without thinking about it, he sat down.

 

“Something else, Thursday?”

 

Thursday had come to respect Bright, this last year – only a month ago the man had saved Morse’s life by shooting a tiger that was seconds away from mauling him. And he’d had Thursday’s back, more than Thursday had ever expected.

 

Thursday told him about Joan leaving, and about the doctor at the hospital. Bright sent him home for the rest of the day.

 

He stopped by his mother-in-law’s house and found Win there with her mum, sister and brother-in law. They were thankfully all dry eyed, and Win stood to give him a tight squeeze when he entered the room. “We’ll stay for tea, won’t we, love?”

 

All Win’s sister’s husband wanted to talk about was the bank heist, which had been splashed all over the news yesterday and today. “And your Joan, right in the middle of it!” Thursday answered with official police responses a few times, then was reduced to the occasional grunt as he got more and more wound up. He’d never liked the man much. Win’s hand snuck across to hold his, and she gamely tried to redirect the conversation.

 

After they ate, he whispered in her ear that he’d promised to go and see Morse again this evening. “The poor lad, stuck there on his own. I’ll come with you!” she said immediately, and there was no one on the earth with a bigger heart than his Win.

 

Thursday asked if they’d mind if he took the newspapers from yesterday and today. “Of course not,” the brother-in-law said. “I imagine he wants to read all about himself, eh?” Thursday smiled stiffly, and in the car carefully removed the pages with the crosswords and threw the rest in the back.

 

“We should have picked him up something,” Win fretted as they drove. “Some grapes, or biscuits. Everything will be closed now. You said he doesn’t have any family, hereabouts?”

 

“No, not round here. He’s got a sister – half-sister I think – up north, but she couldn’t get away from her job. Not sure what he’ll do when he gets out; I get the impression he’s not on friendly terms with his step mother, and his own parents are... Maybe I can send someone round to check on him a couple of times a day, at his flat,” Thursday mused aloud.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Win said stoutly. “He can have Sam’s room.”

 

“Now, love-“

 

“Don’t you ‘now, love’ me! He saved Joan’s life, you told me! Not to mention you fret more about that lad than you have about anyone since…Well. Since Mickey.”

 

Thursday glanced in the mirror, and hmmed noncommittally as he made the turning to the hospital.

 

“And he’s a sweet lad,” she carried on, warming to her subject. “Ever so polite, and I know Joanie said he saw her home once, after some lout ran off on her on a date.”

 

“Did he?” Thursday asked, surprised. “When was that?”

 

“I don’t know, a year ago? Anyway, he needs taking care of, and we have the space.”

 

Thursday opened his mouth, and realized he had no rational reason to protest. Certainly it would put him at ease to have Morse where he could keep an eye on him, and there was no one better to look out for him than Mrs Thursday. He couldn’t even see it raising much fuss at the station, with the lad being shot and all.

 

“He may not want to, love,” he forced himself to say slowly. “Things haven’t been so good between he and I, the last few days.” More than the last few days.

 

“What? You never said! Did you have a spat?”

 

“Have a – You make us sound like an old married couple!” She reached across and patted his knee.

 

“What was it about, then?”

 

About the law. About the ends justifying the means. About Thursday being bloody pigheaded, and implying Morse wasn’t loyal; that he wasn’t fit to be Thursday’s bagman unless he’d follow him down a dirty path.

 

 _Christ_.

 

“It seems silly now,” he muttered after a moment of silence, unable to tell her the truth. “But I’m not sure the lad will be comfortable with it.”

 

“Doesn’t sound like he has much choice,” was her slightly tart rejoinder as he parked, and he held his peace.

 

Morse was dozing when they got to his room, and Thursday went to find a nurse while Win settled in beside him. By the time he got updated on Morse’s condition and returned, the lad had woken up and struggled into a half upright position. Judging by the tinge of pink on his cheeks, he was embarrassed by Win’s presence.

 

“Morse,” Thursday said, and Morse turned his head to see him, moving stiffly and looking slightly dazed. They still had him on some of the good stuff, by the look of it, though the ward sister had said he was coming off it tonight.

 

“Sir,” Morse sounded more than a little uncomfortable, and his eyes darted to Thursday’s wife.

 

“My Win already got you on the run, has she? Don’t tell me, you got a proper scolding about getting shot, and taking care of yourself. _Ha_ , that’s all I have to say to you – it’s your turn now.” His levity didn’t seem to cheer Morse; if anything making the lad hunch his shoulders further with an awkward wince of pain.

 

“No, sir. I mean, that is-“

 

“I told Morse he was welcome to come and stay with us, while he recuperates,” Win interrupted briskly. “What have the doctor’s said?”

 

“Maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after,” Thursday replied absently, but his real focus was on Morse. Morse, who couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from him, fingers picking fretfully at his blanket, eyes round and troubled. Morse, who didn’t know if he was welcome at the Thursdays.

 

“I couldn’t possibly impose-“ Morse started, but it wouldn’t have been good for Thursday’s blood pressure to let him finish.

 

“Never an imposition, lad. My Win’s right, you’d be more than welcome. Nice to have you there, where I can make sure you’re not trying to chase down villains or get beaten up while you still have a hole in you. Morse…” He hesitated, then said, “Give us a minute, would you, love?”

 

“Of course. I’ll go and see if they’ll bring a cup of tea round for you.”

 

Once she’d left, Morse turned to him in agitation. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t know what to say, I know that-“

 

“You know that you’ll be staying with us, that’s what you know,” Thursday said grimly. “No two ways about it.”

 

Morse’s mouth became a stubborn line. And Thursday didn’t for the life of him know how to start the rest of this conversation. “Sir, I’m not sure-“

 

“The results for your Sergeant’s came through. Bright’ll want to give it to you officially, of course, but you more than passed, lad. Well done.” Rather than cheer him, this seemed to upset Morse. “I’ve spoken to Bright, and there’ll be room to keep you on at the station as a DS.” He was gambling on a lot of things here; Bright’s cooperation, his own health. A fragile house of cards. “As my bagman. If you want.”

 

“I thought…”

 

Thursday’s mouth tightened. “I’ve had a bad patch, Morse, and I’m sorry you’ve borne the brunt of it. And I’ve no excuse. But if you’ll stay… I want you to stay.” It was surprisingly difficult to get the words out, but the lad deserved them. Thursday looked away then, flustered, and saw Win coming back through the ward.

 

“Tea’s on its way,” she said cheerfully. “All sorted with you two? I hope you’re happy to stay with us, love, it’s not much but it’s-“

 

“Yes,” Morse broke in, voice a little unsteady. His eyes were bright, and trained on Thursday. “I’ll stay.”

 

 

 

The End

 

**Author's Note:**

> No really, I can't stop writing. It's becoming a problem...


End file.
